At The Beginning Of The End
by Cookie-Stories
Summary: Most of the time, everything happens at the beginning of the end. And most of the time, it's a little too late, especially when you're thrown out of a plane and plagued with injuries, left with only minutes to live. - "Not all beginnings are a cause for celebration, because very often, when one starts, another one ends." TWO/THREE-SHOT, UNLESS I CONTINUE POST-FIC.


**A/N: this might be a multiple-shot story. it's been collecting some dust in my notes section, so i decided to post it. dedicated to Tarpeach1982 because she wanted a What If: Wilderness Plane Crash. (: so here you go!**

**disclaimer: disclaimed. i own my pilot though. **

**warning: POSSIBLE MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH(s), DISGUSTING DISMEMBERMENT OF BODY PARTS, AND LOTS AND LOTS OF BLOOD.**

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**Chapter 1**

Not all beginnings are a cause for celebration. Because very often, when one starts, another one ends...

(Clint)

Thrown. They were thrown... Out of the sky. They were throw out of the sky! On a plane. They were on a plane, to... They were going to... Moscow... Or, Dubai. Somewhere. They were going somewhere... He can't remember... The throb in his head becomes a mere, dull ache as his eyelids drooped, giving into the tire... Drooping, and drooping. He's just that exhausted, until finally, they close, and he drifts...

The plane rumbles, like it always does. They didn't use a hovercraft because SHIELD was running low on transport. They are headed for Dubai for a team mission. Infiltrate. Engage. Interrogate. Simple. The thick metal reverberates through the turbulence, growing louder and louder as the smell of fuel becomes a more pungent stench riding up his nose. Then...

They're slung out of the sky, the plane's descent only increasing. With the metal bird, and the loss of control, they hurtle to the ground, if there is any ground. Clint vaguely remembers standing up and commanding the helpless pilot, only to be thrown back with force... And then a screech on one side of the plane... Screaming. He remembers turning towards a scream, before the plane gets ripped out by the side and Natasha-

_Natasha! _Clint's eyes fly open to her name. He stares up at the sky, panting harder than he does with impatience. It's so... Calm. So serene. Like he's just lying on sand, watching the cloudless sky until the sun sets. No... Clint turns his head slightly to the side. No... There are just leaves, and twigs, moss everywhere. He's not on sand.

His body can't move, and his whole midriff hurts like it's just been burnt by fire. Hell. It burns like hell. The world starts to close in on him again, as asphalt catches up to him and starts to poke black spots into his vision. _No. _It's an urgency of some sort that drives him awake. He can't fall asleep. He needs to find Natasha.

Slowly, he stretches his back and wiggles his fingers and toes, sparking the nerves of each finger and toe up to their ends painfully. Clint then shuts his eyes tightly and tries to drive out the ringing in his ears completely, until his hearing is regained. Sitting up, he lets a gentle gasp escape his lips in shock.

Even with his pounding head, the sound of a small bushfire cannot be mistaken. And the angry static sounds from the radio transmitter. The burnt smell of the trees and the leaves slowly come into play, raising his attention to the obvious smell of roasted flesh and boiled blood too. Clint stands up on weak legs, eventually shaking away the shakiness, and starts to trek around the area of destruction.

Multiple parts of the giant bird are scattered across the acres, but there is already enough destruction in the single area itself. Bits and pieces of scrap are embedded in the dirt, forming tiny mountains of soil. Loose clothes and fabric are strewn across the area of impact, some tattered and some intact. He looks around a bit more, eyes landing on the nose of the plane.

He didn't fall far from where they landed, it seems. The front of the plane is dislocated from the body and tail, the rest of it disappearing somewhere beyond wherever his eyes can see. Clint finally notices the pilot and walks right up to the man. The pilot is in his seat, his white shirt soaked to the skin with blood.

A thick branch is impaled into his chest, and Clint mutters a curse at that. It must have caught onto him when the plane flew through the trees and took the side. His body, though, is hunched forward with his neck awkwardly craned almost too far over to his left, letting his cheek rest on the power board with a blank stare in his eyes. His neck is obviously broken, and that makes a chill run down Clint's spine. There is no pulse when he checks for it, so he moves on.

Clint finds an arm resting near the pilot's mishap point, and judging from its masculine conditioning, it must be the pilot's. Thank God it isn't Natasha's, whom he has yet to find. The arm is thoroughly burnt, giving it an almost perfect sear as it burns beside the tiny grass fire, dripping with blood from the severed edge. Ignoring the bile that's rising in his throat, he continues to scoot around for an indication that Natasha is near.

A little dizziness hits him, like it did when he was lying down. Clint decides to crouch down for awhile, shaking his head in a rough, feral motion to drive out the sickness. It's just from the crash, and probably a nice, good concussion. Then, when he opens his eyes again, he sees it. Natasha's chain. She keeps saying it's a size too big, and that it falls from her neck every time. She must be near, then.

"Natasha!" He calls out. Excluding him and the pilot, Natasha is the only one out of the three that hasn't been found. And each minute he doesn't find her, it makes his heart grow heavier, like something is about to happen.

"Natasha!" He strains, worry building in his chest as he starts venturing deeper into the unknown, finding the other parts of the dismantled plane. Clint hopes to find her soon. Preferably, for the sake of his palpitating heart, alive.

**-cookies!-**

_(Natasha)_

Don't panic..._ She tells herself yet again, probably the tenth time since she'd slipped from unconsciousness into consciousness and purged a disgusting liquid she couldn't quite put a finger on._

_Her heart is thumping against the calcium barriers of her chest, pressing and pressing until it feels like it's about to explode. And her legs. She doesn't feel them. She can't feel them anymore... She tries to move her legs but they won't move. They don't even hurt._

_Breathing shallow, Natasha's eyes try to source for her legs, only to be barricaded by a large scrap of metal severing her midriff from her hip. Probably beyond that, the rest of the scrap metals are crushing her legs. Severed spine... She unexpectedly laughs. Her head falls back down to the dirt._

_Natasha tries moving her hands too, her chest having no control over the sudden convulsions from her untimely laughter. _Great!_ Her momentary neuroticism makes her cheer in her head. She can't feel her left arm too! Maybe it's not even there!_

_After a while, when breathing starts to take a toll on her weakened lungs and the laughing wears off, Natasha feels a little something in her throat. It rides up the insides of her throat, so dry and so thirsty she swears she's dehydrated, and when it reaches the uncomfortable back of her throat, she turns to an open side and purges the liquid up onto the dried leaves._

_The residue of the sticky fluid dangles at her mouth, stretching and dripping onto the floor like thin syrup. It's the rough colour of ground coffee, a little darker and blacker than the already browned leaves where she threw up on. Did she drink coffee that morning? Most probably not. Natasha's preference turns towards hot chocolate._

_The fluid tastes like copper. Blood, maybe. She threw up blood. She feels another bout of nausea coming again, but manages to swallow it back down her sandy throat. "C-" Natasha starts, the rest of his name dying on her lips. "C-Cli..."_

_Another round of black fluid, this time more unexpected than triggered, gushes right from her mouth. Now, her heart feels like an expanding balloon under her ribs, pressing everywhere and drumming so quickly. What a discomfort. "C-Clint...!" The assassin finally manages to enunciate._

_Weakly, she wastes her breath over and over again, calling out his name in such a small voice that she doesn't even think can be heard. They shouldn't have fought before the mission. Maybe he's angry enough to leave her to die. When he doesn't come, Natasha swallows dryly and stares up at the hard metal just half a metre from her face. She guesses that she's on her own here._

_Well, blood. That can't be good... Right?_

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**WELL, i hope it was a good short chapter to leave you a cliffy. reviews much appreciated! **


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